The Strange Riddle of John Watson's Neck
by halfcrowns
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a man who likes mysteries, and now he is faced with the enigma of why in the world is he, Sherlock Holmes, so intrigued by John Watson's neck.
1. Prologue

Sherlock Holmes is a man who likes mysteries. He is addicted to solving them, and is always on the lookout for them as this addiction needs to be fed. When unfed, he has no choice but to plunge into a different kind of addiction in order to ignore the unsatisfied longings.

Mysteries exquisite, of exceedingly high quality is what he seeks. Mundane ones of everyday sort will just exasperate and bore him. To keep Sherlock's interest unflagging, it needs to be complex, exceptional, intricate, and unexpected. It should be deducible, logical and sensible. He collects them only to solve them, then deletes them afterwards. Solved mysteries are boring though they do turn into a kind of trophy, a mention in his long list of achievements, and becomes his not-so-secret source of pride. (For he does take pride in them; they are evidences of his abilities after all.) His long track record of solving them is what affirms his belief in the world as a logical place where there are laws and rules that are adhered to, even if they may somewhat be bent and screwed. It renews his belief in humanity; that people can be known, explained, and understood. Without it he will stop seeing the point of it all. For what is an illogical world to someone who only craves and thrives on solid logic? He dislikes true irrationality. It is meaningless and pointless, and unsettles him somewhat. There has to be an explanation for everything.

Of himself and how his mind works, Sherlock is well aware. He gets bored by predictable and cannot abide them. At the same time he craves logic that overrules everything, a motive that can be picked up in anything and everything. He wants an ordered chaos, decipherable riddles, logical puzzles - which would seem ordered, decipherable and logical to no one but he himself can make sense of if he pursues it.

And he is now faced with the strange riddle of John Watson's neck.

Rather, the back of John Watson's neck and his fascination with it.

To be exact, the enigma of why in the world is he, Sherlock Holmes, so intrigued by that part of John's body that he can't help looking at it and wants to gather more data regarding it first hand.

Sherlock wasn't even aware of it before - he of course knew John's neck had a back and it existed, but he hadn't really properly perceived it, really looked at it before. He only became fully aware of it after living with John for about four months. This is not due to lack of attention or oversight on his part but more to do with circumstantial factors (the most influential one being the season; they met in winter and John always covered/wrapped/hid that part of his body with his shirt collar/scarf/jacket collar turned up against cold).

So when the weather turned warm and John began to spend more time lounging about in his dressing gown in the living room, rather than getting changed into something warmer as soon as he can (which is right after the shower), Sherlock was surprised to find that while the back of John's neck did indeed look exactly like the simulated version he had constructed from calculating available visual data, it didn't. He doesn't know how to express himself as he does not know what this is. It was not simply the back of John Watson's neck, a part of his body which was there as it should be, all anatomically correct. It had a strange effect on him.

He couldn't help staring at it.

And he doesn't know why - at all.


	2. Chapter 1

The first time Sherlock was face-to-neck with John was in late spring. It felt as if the summer was early, which made people happy and easy (and fearful at the same time, as that did happen occasionally; summer came early between April and May and buggered off for a holiday during the actual summer months, filling it up with dreary rain instead and thereby ruining everyone else's holiday) and John has taken off his jumpers to enjoy this short, and very possibly temporary, respite. He was in the kitchen making his mid-morning tea and Sherlock was sat crossed-legged on the settee going through today's newspapers. It was an ordinary morning in Baker Street - as ordinary as it gets during those case-less periods when John went to work in random hours and Sherlock skulked about in the flat gradually declining into boredom.

"Sherlock!"

John called out to him from the kitchen. A hint of frustration; it must mean he found the petri dish without a lid but with a culture in the cutlery drawer. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"Not to worry. Put it in the microwave if it bothers you so much. Black tea is fine."

"Put it in the microwave yourself. Glad to hear you're fine with black tea when I'm not-"

Considerable frustration. Sherlock frowned. Whatever for? John would shake his head, sigh and put the petri dish away himself if it were other times. He was missing something.

"-and when it's you who forgot to buy milk for the whole month!"

Mystery solved. Since the question of unbought milk (which was terribly important to John due to it being related to the production of tea; a liquid that must flow in his veins instead of blood) was involved, Sherlock thought he may deign to do what John wanted him to do for a change. Besides, he needed to stock up on brownie points as he was bound to annoy John in near future unless Lestrade turned up with something remotely interesting. So Sherlock got up, and began making his way to the kitchen - which surprised John, which in turn amused Sherlock.

"Yes, John. I am capable of acting like a 'nice' flatmate when the advantages of acting like one far outweighs the disadvantages of not acting like one."

Sweeping into the kitchen he was interested to observe the effects of his words on John's face where various expressions were succeeding each other like something that succeeds each other rather too quickly. John's face settled to form a faint smile which made a corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in reply.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Tut tut, John, you know I of all people can't be manipulated."

"I reckon it's worth a try."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John's smile grew bigger. Motioning to Sherlock to sort out the petri dish, he moved to get the boiling kettle and began brewing less-than-perfect, but-better-than-nothing, black tea. While John was busying himself getting out two usable mugs, Sherlock did move the offending item from the cutlery drawer to the microwave. It was a great pity; he wanted to observe the growing pattern of the culture on their cutlery and find out if the proximity of metal objects affected it in any way. Never mind. At least those three other samples in lower drawers were not discovered. His task was done, and the smell of fresh hot tea began taking over the kitchen. Sherlock was just shutting the door of the microwave and was making a 195° turn to return to the living room - when he found himself disrupting his smooth movement involuntarily.

To put it simply, he stopped.

This is the sight he met mid-turn: He could see John's back. It seemed he had just finished brewing the tea and was getting rid of the tea bags, as John was facing the bin and had a teaspoon in his left hand, fishing for that brown squelchy thing, while he was holding Sherlock's mug in his right hand. John was looking down. John was wearing a cotton t-shirt - surely 200g/m². The back of John's neck, a set of smooth lines which emerged beneath his closely shorn blonde hair was fully exposed. Sherlock stared.

Then his brain began whirring away, observing this new territory to gather data, as he should. John's neck was not as thick as Sherlock had estimated, which is understandable as he used the yet unconfirmed but generally applicable neck/waist ratio. Well, that was all right. So that was that. The tan line he had noticed at John's throat extended to the back, and was more pronounced, obviously, due to the back of the neck being more exposed to the sun. There wasn't much to see. John didn't have any freckle or mole, nor any scars. It was how it should be. Nothing out of ordinary. Seemingly normal. Skin covering muscles and bones. All there, present and correct. A human neck, that's what it was. That was all. And it looked... nice. Yes, nice. It was John's neck. Anyway. Yes. There was nothing new. He was just seeing it physically for the first time. Still nice.

Why in the world was he repeating that most boring adjective of all to himself?

What was so nice about it anyway?

Stop using that word, _right now_.

Still Sherlock stared, as John emptied two mugs of the used tea bags, found sugar, put sugar in the mugs according to the mug-owner's preference, and began stirring the mugs one by one. With his neck bent, looking down, the angle ever so slightly different, humming some popular tune or another Sherlock didn't care to acquaint himself with under his breath.

He realised he wanted to touch it; press his fingers on that slightly rough surface and see how it feels. There was nothing to note, but he wanted to note the sensations, minute details that can only be gathered by employing and focusing all his senses upon that slight expanse of human anatomy. Which was completely irrational, unnecessary, and stupid, really. He seemed to be confused, but the reason was unclear. There was nothing to be confused about.

Then he saw his right hand, moving by itself, reaching out to John - and quickly brought it down using his left just before John turned around and held out his mug towards him.

"Here's your black tea. Say the magic word and I _might_ go out and get milk myself," said John, smiling.

"I don't know any magic words."

The words came out of his mouth automatically and his hand grasped the proffered mug without any hesitation but his brain was befuddled with various problems which didn't make any sense but were terribly effective nevertheless. Sherlock realised with a start that this whirlwind of mental activity didn't take more than three minutes maximum.

"Damn, forgot who I was talking to."

John chuckled and walked towards the living room.

And Sherlock stared after him. At his neck.

* * *

**Note:** I am not a good writer in any way and fail on all fronts of quality, quantity and speedy delivery. But it's weekend and some people were overly nice - adding me on alerts and writing me a review, even, so I tried. I don't have a beta reader and I really just write for my own satisfaction, so it's strange to find that some people are reading this.

**TL;DR:** Thank you for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 2

Sherlock wasn't a big fan of self-analysis as he knew himself only too well. In each and every instance, he was perfectly aware of the boundaries he has for himself and the possible actions and routes he might take. He had a map of himself in his brain which showed him the best options and effective actions for each and every situation. It was too simple and not worth contemplating; but he did examine himself and update the database on a regular basis, as human beings have a tendency to change with time, though he himself wasn't that affected by it. Anyway introspection wasn't really fun when he knew all his goals and desires and when it was much more interesting to find out how other people worked, especially if they were related to puzzles of criminal nature. Yet this time he had to observe himself as he did others, in order to figure out this mystery.

Why did he do that?

He never did something like that. Ever. Just staring when there was no reason to, when there was nothing to discover, when there was nothing _interesting_. It was bizarre and unreasonable and pointless and so unlike himself.

So Sherlock retreated to his room and sat down on his bed and reconstructed that kitchen scene in his mind and explored what John did and what he did and what John said and what he said and what he saw and what he felt and got lost before he realised he was lost and found himself recalling John's neck in such clear detail that he found himself mesmerised by it and wasted shocking fifteen minutes like someone stoned by something too strong to be legal before he was called back to reality by John shouting to him from the living room to answer the bloody phone but he couldn't answer the phone straightaway even though it was the long-awaited call from DI Lestrade because he realised he was like that for quarter of an hour and he was physically stunned by that realisation and couldn't move.

In the end John rushed in, trailing a stream of half-formed invectives in his wake, and answered the phone.

"John Watson here."

Sherlock found himself thinking (while unconsciously deducing what Lestrade was saying from John's responses) that John should really turn his back on him so that his ne... and stopped himself. This really won't do. His approach was all tangled and confused. This was surely something that required careful and controlled systematic methodology, as evidenced by irrational confusion experienced. He needed a plan of action. He needed to establish a contained environment or at least an environment where he can apply a proper time frame for observation. He needed more data, take various samples from data acquired and analyse it to establish set patterns and draw conclusions. From now on, he told himself, he must exert strong self-control and be keenly aware that he himself is the biggest obstacle to successfully tackling this riddle of John Watson's neck.

Following such conclusions (while John was getting briefed by Lestrade about a strangler case) Sherlock formulated a plan.

In a way, it is a good thing Sherlock doesn't think or operate like a 'normal' person. If he did, surely 1) he would have felt quite foolish for going way overboard with this endeavour, and 2) would have felt quite uncomfortable for these intense feelings over his flatmate's body part.

John finished the phone call and looked at him. Sherlock was looking at him already so their eyes met, naturally. John didn't say anything. Sherlock didn't say anything. Then John frowned, the one that signified puzzlement, just for a moment. He soon discarded the frown, nodded towards the door, and said, "Shall we go?"

Oh, yes. The case.

Sherlock promptly got up from the bed and nearly rushed out the door but stopped himself in time and was rewarded by the sight of John making his way out in front of him, shaking his head slightly, and saying the following words.

"I'm quite willing to have a go at you for not answering your phone but haven't the energy for it so we will skip that part and just go, okay?"

Sherlock smiled, and followed him.

"Lead the way, John."


	4. Chapter 3

"Bit strange, apparently. Lestrade says happenings are not concentrated in one area, no connection between the victims apart from their age group and..."

John's sentence didn't get finished and trailed into nothingness; Sherlock was staring intently at something beyond him and John, somewhat unnerved by his unblinking stare, followed suit and looked over his shoulder. Through the taxi window on his side he could see the street outside but that was it. There was nothing noteworthy. What was Sherlock looking at? When he turned towards Sherlock again, the man was looking straight ahead as if he had been born in that position and the past few minutes did not happen. John was just about to open his mouth to make a comment but Sherlock demanded the profile of the victims and he forgot all about it.

Listening to John, Sherlock mentally catalogued the way John's neck stretched and how the muscles pulled and twisted. It was very interesting. To be honest it was all too rather exciting and fascinating. Reminded him of when he first witnessed cell division. Back in the flat, He had briefly wondered if John had donated his body to medical science, but now he was absolutely certain that observing a dead John Watson (despite its advantages such as ease of observation and access) was too inferior to observing a live John Watson and cannot even be contemplated as an option. Well, obvious, really.

Their taxi arrived at the crime scene where Lestrade was waiting for them and, as the taxi slowed to a stop, Sherlock once again congratulated himself for letting John answer the phone. It meant John had to lead the way and that Sherlock had to follow. Follow, as in behind John. Such was the joy afforded to him from the moment they left his room. He could observe the back of John's neck all the way through from some varying viewpoints (going down the staircase in their flat gave him some superb data) in unobtrusive manner. He didn't even have to hood the gleeful glint in his eye. The plan was going well; though the ruse he used in the taxi was risky (John being kind of intelligent had its drawbacks) and made him question its practicality, it worked, too. He already accumulated so much data he wanted to delve into and review. For instance the way John's sternomastoid flexes when-

"Sherlock."

-John's voice recalled him to the reality. Sherlock was slightly startled to find that they were inside an abandoned building; the floor concrete, no windows but rectangles cut in the walls, and a dead body in front of them, Lestrade on the other side of it. When did they go beyond the police tape? When did they make their way from the main street to this building (a small goods factory, not used for three years at least even by the homeless, must have taken at least eight minutes to get here) tucked in one corner of industrial estate?

"Yes?"

"Are you ill?" This was whispered, obviously with the setting and other people in mind (one of them was dead but John was polite to people regardless of what state they were in).

He didn't grace that question with a verbal answer but rolled his eyes. John answered back by raising an eyebrow at him. Sherlock sighed and said, "No, I am perfectly fine and functioning as I should."

"Sure? The only time I saw you not prancing about with joy over a dead body was when you had a sprained ankle and even then your curls were trying to prance."

Sherlock nearly smiled and told John that dead bodies and such like were not even remotely interesting when compared to this riddle John's neck had presented him with, but for some reason his mouth shut itself of its own accord and didn't let him say so. Then his right foot moved and his knees bent down and he was on the floor and his hand pulled out his magnifier out and his eyes began observing everything and his brain began picking up the information around him and deducing everything. Some of his brain cells were both confused and amused with the way he was functioning without any conscious thought and questioned the reason behind this sudden autopilot mode (he didn't even know it existed before) but they were soon silenced by the majority and he got on with his work in peace.

Busy working, Sherlock didn't see the way John was looking at him.

* * *

**Note:** It feels like I'm repeating myself but I have to say it or else - thanks for all the reviews and adding the story to alerts and favourites.


	5. Chapter 4

The case was over; it was all very simple and should have annoyed him for not being interesting enough, but Sherlock was just happy to get it over and done with and did not feel irritated at all. To be honest, he was glad to get away from it all. Now he could go back to the Baker Street and resume his research. There were some more plans that needed implementing, too. In his haste to wrap up the case he even forgot to acknowledge the presence of Anderson and make some unnecessary sharp comments, which meant Lestrade was happy, Sally was confused, Anderson was unnerved and John was suspicious - though Sherlock wasn't aware of any of this.

They walked back to the main street side by side and Sherlock explained similar cases in the past and the traits shared by various stranglers while discreetly observing John's neck who was just half a step in front of him by - Sherlock's - design. A taxi was hailed and Sherlock opened the door and made a sweeping gesture signalling John go in first which made the doctor pull a face as he went in. Sherlock followed, after satisfying himself with another new and rare angle presented to him; the neck is bent but the head isn't fully down and the overall effect was rather unique. It was quite shocking, really, that he didn't realise this until now.

Then he was suddenly struck with a question he didn't even consider before this very moment: Why didn't he? Why wasn't he made aware of the intriguing thing that was the back of John Watson's neck before now? It wasn't all to do with jumpers and jacket collars and scarves, surely. There was something more than that, though he couldn't fathom what that 'something more' was.

Thus another question was added to the compound mystery that was John Watson's neck, mused Sherlock. He was rather delighted with this development. Serial killers were gratifying because they presented a stream of same different problems which shared a common thread which could be picked up. When this thread was identified, it then led to various channels and theories which then merged together to form a unifying entity that was the killer; the killer as a whole being presenting him with the history and drama and personal urges and desires and all the variables such as luck and coincidence. This allowed him to pinpoint the ultimate solution that would resolve the matter in one firm glorious stroke. In other words - gather data, review and calculate and construct, identify key points, form strategy, and execute strategy. Between such stages were random developments that could not be controlled which added flavour to his investigation. He felt this new question was just that; a random development out of nowhere which excited him all the more. This was getting more and more interesting.

Sherlock paused. It was strangely quiet. It was silent, in fact, apart from all the usual London sounds that seeped into the cab. He stopped his eyes from darting this way and that following his train of thought and froze himself for a moment. How many numbers? Fifteen would be ample, but since he wasted a few seconds thinking, three would do just as well. Three it is then. One, two, three, and Sherlock turned his head slowly, nonchalantly, to look at John.

Instead of the familiar blue eyes with a hint of grey and some specks of brown, Sherlock found John had closed his eyes; John wasn't facing him but was sat facing forward, leaning back in his seat, arms folded and his head resting on the headrest, his chin slightly tilted up. This threw Sherlock off balance somewhat. The pose was obviously intentional (which meant it was to be taken as signifying something greater), but before he could grab hold of any clues and regain his mental footing, John spoke to him: "You're plotting."

He bristled at this.

"I do not plot."

"Yes, you do. It's in your genetic makeup or something, I reckon, since your brother does it for living and for a country. You do it automatically like breathing."

John still had his eyes closed. His breathing was normal and his body was relaxed and his voice was light and had a slightly joking edge to it (which didn't mean it could spiral into something dangerous and terrifying) and he had a neutral expression on his face. Sherlock couldn't read much into what was in front of him and began fishing for verbal clues.

"Plotting means I am secretly making plans."

"You always have plans."

"Not when I don't have a case."

"Wrong. Then 'Sherlock is Bored' plan kicks in - and now you roll his eyes. Voilà."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did. I felt it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes (again) and threw up his arms in exasperation. Right after he got rid of the case in record time to get back to enjoying this, John Watson just had to be difficult. Typical. He was also getting slowly upset with not being able to see John and his expressions and mannerisms. John was withholding himself and Sherlock couldn't tolerate that. It was just not right. All wrong.

"Why are you being irrationally difficult?"

A short pause, then John opened his eyes. Sherlock froze for some inexplicable reason - there was really no logic to it and it was more of an instinctive thing - and watched as John sat up, unfolded his arms, turned his head and looked at him.

"So the plan is to do with me. I see."


	6. Chapter 5

This is new, Sherlock thought, trying to gauge this emotional reaction he was having. A perfect balance, between frustration and exhilaration. Didn't know that was a possible combination. How intriguing - would need to review this later on - annoying though - still impressive with the unique mix - not that it isn't irritating. All the while, John smiled and watched and waited. Wait, what was he waiting for? Sherlock frowned.

"To tell me what you are plotting for me, obviously," John put in, helpfully. "And don't try to lie, Sherlock, 'cause I'll know if you do and you know very well that I'll know."

His tone was mild but there was a hard glint in his eyes which showed he meant what he said. Sherlock weighed the pros and cons of telling John the truth and decided to go for something that bore strong resemblance to the truth but was not the truth itself.

"I was suddenly struck by the shape of your occiput. It's very smooth. And spherical."

Rather implausible and utterly flimsy, true, but then again wasn't that far from the truth. In fact it was less so than the truth as, where the truth was concerned, he had absolutely no idea why he was suddenly fixated with the back of John's neck whereas the back of John's head did indeed look like a nearly perfect sphere.

Thoughtfully, John put a hand up to his head and stroked it for a couple of times, perhaps to verify what Sherlock said for himself. For some reason Sherlock was reminded of the way John sometimes scratched his head and nearly smiled. Then John put his hand down, shrugged and left it at that to Sherlock's relief.

Soon they arrived at the Baker Street, paid their fare and got off the cab. They walked up to their front door and, as Sherlock didn't bother to take his keys and as they both knew this was the case, John fished out his keys and opened the door. Trailing Sherlock behind him, he began climbing up the stairs. When he was about three steps up, he asked:

"What's it going to be, then?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John's back. John elaborated, as if to answer the enquiring eyebrow.

"You're bound to take some decisive action, you being you. Might as well consent to it and get it over and done with. Less hassle that way."

"Yes. Obviously."

By which Sherlock meant: Obviously he should have told John the truth rather than its second cousin. He nearly gritted his teeth and growled to protest at the absurdity of it all. How did John Watson always manage to stump him without meaning to?

Oblivious to his flatmate's inner turmoil, John opened the door to their flat proper, hung his coat on the hook and headed for the kitchen to concoct that essential pot of tea. He called out to Sherlock, who also took off his coat and was just turning on his laptop.

"So what do you want to do with my perfectly spherical occiput?"

"I want to touch it."

Sherlock blinked. That came out without thinking and with far more earnestness than he deemed himself capable of. John seemed slightly taken aback by it also, but Sherlock noted with slight admiration that John soon recovered, taking it all in his stride, much quicker than himself.

"Like, in a normal way?"

Sherlock smiled to himself listening to John's words, said in a carefully measured tone that was in no ways calculated yet controlled, conveying everything he was experiencing - quite amused, slightly sceptic, half teasing and faintly challenging. And underlying all that was something inexplicable that made Sherlock feel slightly warm.

"Yes, John, in a normal, ordinary, boring, dull way."

"I can deal with that. Enjoy the novelty of it and all."

"Novelty of having your head stroked?"

"Novelty of you doing something dull because you want to."

"Oh, yes. That is novel, isn't it?"

* * *

**Note (to dear lovely people reading this thing):** I have changed the numbering of the chapters, and Chapter 1 is now Prologue. It seemed to make more sense that way. Hope it doesn't confuse anyone (*fingers crossed*).


	7. Chapter 6

So here they were, the two of them, sitting on the couch, Sherlock on the armrest with his hand on John's head and John on the middle seat with a bemused expression on his face. Sherlock was very much intrigued and excited and fascinated for absolutely no reason at all, there was no logic to this tingling sensation he was feeling - feeling, as in through his five senses as well as through his mind. John's head was pleasantly warm and round and smooth and firm and his hair was not too fine but not too thick and Sherlock liked how the short hair strands pushed against themselves as he stroked and ruffled them. The faint sound they made as they shifted under his hand was wonderful, and reminded Sherlock of a field full of tall reeds blowing in the wind. The texture was fine, too. He could do this all day and not be bored. Definitely not bored. In fact, all the sensory information he was getting was too much. For him senses were used not to feel, but to know. Now he was both feeling and knowing, and the feelings he was experiencing was overwhelming him in such a way that he had no words to express them.

He could just about manage this:

"I must experiment and find out the length of time the strength of friction force need be applied to produce significant wear and tear on human hair."

"And where would you apply the amazing knowledge you gain, exactly?"

"Good point. The results will be useless."

"Obviously."

John's quip was full of silent laughter and Sherlock nearly smiled, then they were silent once again.

Sherlock felt John's occiput with his thumb, his palm, the back of his hand, with one, two, three, and four fingers, then with two hands and with the underside of his wrist. Same different; that's how it felt. Anyway it was all John and therefore all fine. He explored the hair whorl and traced the pattern of gold from it and felt what the border areas between hair and uncovered skin was like. Data, so much data, none of them really useful or applicable but how can he ignore these? He couldn't stop himself. He kept on.

After quite a long while, John spoke up, his voice lower than its usual tone.

"I think I should've set a time limit before agreeing to do this."

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal noise and wondered once again at the discrepancy between John's words and the tone and didn't miss the tired note in John's voice; yet he couldn't process anything as just gathering the sensory information was straining his system.

His hand paused for a fraction of a second, held up by an idea blooming, flooding, spreading his being: Maybe he could go beyond the occiput. Follow it down and end up at the area he had devoted all his attention to recently. And gain some much-needed tactile data.

Finally, he thought.

So Sherlock's hand moved down, following the curve, dipping down and onto the straight and smooth line that forms the back of John's neck, finally making contact after gathering all the visual information available with the most thoroughness only he himself can muster - and at the exact moment of full contact, Sherlock found himself on the floor staring at the ceiling in numb shock.

Oh.

He blinked.

OH. Of course. Afghanistan, army doctor, trained for combat, survival instinct, automatic reaction and all that, how in the world did he miss - no, forget - this he can't say for the life of him, of course John will react like this if someone suddenly touched the back of his neck without warning, and really how did he not deduce this he can only excuse himself by saying he was not focused. His occiput ached a bit from the forceful meeting it had with the hard, bare floor and John was fussing over him thinking maybe he was badly hurt since he was not responding at all, but Sherlock just stayed there, feeling calm, lying down facing the ceiling and thinking how relaxing all this was, and wondering why this was so relaxing, and also considering just what was it about John that made him let his guard down, and then going back to muse upon the strange riddle of John Watson's neck and how it thwarted his effort in every turn he made, and finally to ask himself why he wasn't frustrated at all with the lack of progress he was making but was feeling content instead. Questions, questions, but deprived of question marks and curiosity and the burning, all-consuming desire to know, full of something else entirely. It was all so soothing and peaceful and he was lying down and felt strangely unlike his usual self but in an inexplicably positive way. And Sherlock fell asleep. Just like that. He sunk right into the world of deep dreamless sleep.

John had a hard time half-carrying, half-dragging him to his room but he was persistent and careful and concerned and of course Sherlock could deduce that this was so when he was conscious again in the morning. Then he began thinking, bathed in the faint morning light, staring at nothing and focusing on something beyond everything.


	8. Chapter 7

Sat in his bed propped up by several pillows, Sherlock thought. His thinking took quite a bit of time and during that time John woke up, got ready, had breakfast and left for work. The sunlight changed (he wasn't sure why as apparently he was confused about what went round what to cause this phenomenon) and John came back. He heard the sounds John made in the flat and knew that John would send him a text in about an hour, wondering where he was, and spent that hour structuring what he had realised through all the thinking he had done in one day, grabbing the tendrils of realisations and insights and binding and weaving them together to form a coherent, comprehensive pattern.

There were two questions, one major and one minor.

To begin with, the minor question: What prevented him from becoming aware of John Watson's nape?

It was because John was always behind him. John always followed him and he always moved before John; he got into the taxi first, ran ahead when chasing criminals, was always on his feet before John was, rushing headlong, streaming his coat and words of explanations trailing him. Not because John was slow or shy of danger - perish the thought. It was because Sherlock didn't always let him know beforehand. He knew everything before John did but he always explained along the way or, in most cases, didn't even bother to explain. That didn't stop John from following him, always behind him, watching his back. Always behind him.

Sherlock knew this as surely as anything else, as an irrevocable fact, without a question. No doubt about it. He knew this not because he thought about it, not because he deduced it, and not because he engineered it to be. It was simply so. Just as sure as the Sun (or the Earth) went around the other heavenly body everyday and made a day 24 hours and a week seven days, John Watson was always with him. Always.

When did such state of affairs become so natural that he, Sherlock Holmes, did not even register this? He felt a sensation akin to a pulsing bruise or a recovering wound. He knew the answer to this question without thinking. It was almost an intuitive, no, an instinctive thing. It was not logical and had no reasons to support it but he knew the answer. Something warm was curling around his heart and was spreading, rushing, capturing his whole being, enveloping him in this warmth that sent his heart do strange leaps and somersaults. It was so clear and right. He didn't even have to think. It was a ridiculous notion, to think that there is no need to think, but then again it was not. Sherlock didn't register it or question it because it was John Watson doing it; because it was John; because of what and how John was to him.

John.

The back of John's neck, the possibilities it offered, the promises it held, the unattainable area he could not bear to leave untouched - to not know even just one part of John, to be unaware of it and to realise that he was unaware of it, it hurt his pride and his being to learn that he wasn't wholly aware, wholly knowledgeable. He wanted to be the one most well-versed on John Watson, to be the one most close to the man.

To touch John there, touch it lightly with his fingers and run them along the length of it, putting his palm on it, putting both of his hands on it, curling his fingers round John's neck, following the neck to the shoulders, down John's arms, down to the hands, holding hands with all fingers linked; or down John's back, going down the centre, feeling the spine, counting each vertebrae and where sacrum starts and feeling John's waist and down to the thighs; or just exploring the smooth back and noting the shape of John's scapulas and the shoulder wound that tore him away from danger only to thrust him into the open arms of another kind of danger in the heart of London, and feeling how John's sides feels like under his hands and remembering the smooth lines they form and having the silhouette of John Watson enter his mind palace; or feeling John's neck then letting his hands go further down to touch the clavicles and then to the chest and letting his hands roam the whole length of John's torso, front and back, with slow, careful strokes, never letting his hands leave John's skin for even a moment, feeling John's temperature and texture, marvelling at how tangible he is; getting to know John in a physical dimension in a tactile way, not just with his intellect, not just with his sight and hearing but using all his five senses, touching John everywhere, smelling John up close burying his nose on John's skin, tasting John in different ways, hearing John saying words he would very much like to hear, making sounds he want to hear properly; the vast array possibilities the back of John's neck showed to him, the possibilities, not certainties, which nevertheless exists; for it is John who forced him to employ his senses as well as his brain, letting him realise it through speaking to him and making small touches and demanding that he eat and taste things and smelling in a way that cannot be ignored.

When did he change? When did he get such feelings, hopes, desires and wants?

When did John become what he is to Sherlock?

And Sherlock knew, without feeling surprised, that such questions will never be answered though they may be considered till the end of time, that there will be conjectures and near-misses and half-answers but that he will never fully know when or where or what or how or why, though he will always know who.

His 'who' was John. His John Watson.

An hour had passed since John came back, and Sherlock's phone let him know that a text had arrived. Sherlock texted back, letting John know that he was not out but in the flat still. Few minutes later there was a knock on his door, Sherlock answered, and the door opened to reveal the enigma of enigmas, the unsolved mystery that lived with him.

"Did you have anything to eat?" John asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"You know the answer to that question."

"Well, that's good to know."

He disappeared for a moment then came back with a mug in his hand. Tea, of course. The mug was handed over to Sherlock with a look that clearly showed that not receiving it was not an option.

"You may be the most persistent man I know."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I don't know, John, you know I don't do mundane things like compliments."

John laughed. Sherlock smiled. John shook his head and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock wondered how many more smiles were left.

Sherlock did not attempt to consider the future. He didn't contemplate the future without John, or how long they had together in this flat of theirs, the two of them against the world, before something happened to separate them. Their co-existence were a haphazard thing, not planned nor organised in any way, began by a chance introduction, developing into something much further, no one knew how it happened nor where it will reach, a partnership so perfect but not as stable. Sherlock now knew that he wanted more from John, all of John, and perhaps John would give everything he asks for were he to ask, but he wasn't sure if he should. If it wasn't the wrong thing to do. (So like John Watson to make none other than Sherlock Holmes to consider whether something is right or wrong!) This was already good for him, enough for him, too much for him. It would be presuming too much to think that John will be with him till the very end, though that was what he craved, yearned, fervently wished.

To be with John as long as he can.

Did John wish the same?

If only he knew the answer to this question; but for now he would let it be. Something clawed at his chest, but that was fine. It was all fine. John was beside him yet, and he would not try to predict or change the future but immerse himself in the present, to what is available to him, which wasn't something he deserved but was given nevertheless.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock was startled out of his reflection by John's voice. He hadn't realised John had sat down on the bed. He didn't know how close they were until the moment he heard John called his name and felt John's hand on his right shoulder.

"You really should learn to switch off that brain of yours."

At this point, there were so many questions he could ask. He could feel them crowding his conscious, asking to be considered, solved: What did John mean? How was that relevant? How much did he know? What was he asking Sherlock to do?

Then Sherlock looked up, their eyes met, the questions evaporated and were no more, and he knew.

He was John's Sherlock, just as much as John was his John.

**THE END**

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**Note:** Thank you for reading this un-beta'd, unplanned, just generally un-everything-ed little fic. I've only used this place for reading purposes, so getting alerts and reviews were all very new and amazing. :)


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